


Time is the Fire in Which We Burn

by spuffyduds



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dark, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very very pre-show, Drusilla has a vision of someone in her future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time is the Fire in Which We Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Not really any pairing in this, but all possible ones amongst the three of them are certainly implied, as is future Spike/Dru.

Drusilla has come unstuck in time.

"I've come unstuck in time, Grandmummy," she says.

"How nice for you," Darla says. "You must say hello to that darling Mr. Wells and his machine. And..." she leans closer and her voice softens, and Dru bounces up and down a little in her chair, because that means there will be kisses or pain, or both if she is a very lucky girl.

"_And_," Darla says, "if you _ever_ call me that again," and she twists Dru's nipples sharply, "I will pull these _off_, do you understand that?"

"Ooh, yes, Gr--Darla," Dru says, rocking in her seat with the pain, and tearing up, and smiling.

"I'm not sure she understands _anything_," Darla says to Angel, who's coming in the door. He's had to slouch a little to fit under the doorframe; he looks at Dru from under his eyebrows and she shivers and giggles.

"My sweet girl understands enough," he says, "and I've brought her a treat," and he pulls a small boy out from behind him. The boy is bluish and shaking, eyes rolled back in his head, blood all over his smock.

"You couldn't wait for us?" Darla says.

"Ah, no, I've not tasted him. The blood was there already--he's a butcher's boy. Well, was."

"You butchered the butcher?" Darla smiles.

"Thought there was a certain poetry to it," he says, and drops the warm boy in Dru's lap.

The boy's eyes refocus and he clutches at her lace collar and tries to talk, but all that comes out are little mousy squeaks. She slashes her nails across his throat and smiles when the noises turn to wet bubbly sighs.

She doesn't like mice.

She leans down and laps at the blood and that's when she's gone again, backward or forward or somewhere elsewhenward. There's a burning man, flaming and smiling, holding out his burning hand. "I want to see how it ends," he says, and she reaches out her hand, because she wants to see how it begins. But he shifts and is standing, not burning, standing before her all clad in leather. "How do you do, and how do you do, and how do you do again?" she says to him and then sees that his hair is still on fire, little white licks of flame standing up from his head. She wants to touch them but he's changing again, hair growing darker longer softer and his suit is brown, and he looks afraid of her now.

But I should be afraid of you, she thinks. Because the light of your hair will burn me up, scatter me across the sky of your eyes, like

"Burning baby fish," she says to him, and he blinks at her and then

She's back, all three of them in the big bed. Four, really, but the butcher's boy is in bits.

"Boy bits!" she says, and laughs like glass crunching under her shoes, and Darla and Angelus are laughing too, smearing the blood from their mouths all over her. It's good to be loved, to have all the red kisses from Daddy and Grandmummy.

Soon she will find the burning man, taste his blood and feed it back to him, touch the fire of his hair and he will love her best always.

Drusilla is very happy.

 

\--END--


End file.
